


Indolence

by lullabelle



Category: Torchwood
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-26
Updated: 2010-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lullabelle/pseuds/lullabelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The present generation, wearied by its chimerical efforts, relapses into complete indolence. Its condition is that of a man who has only fallen asleep towards morning: first of all come great dreams, then a feeling of laziness, and finally a witty or clever excuse for remaining in bed." ~Søren Kierkegaard</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indolence

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tw_lucky_7, the prompt being "sloth."

Gwen woke one minute before her digital alarm clock was set to go off. She slapped blindly at it, determined to not hear it screech. Then, not positive that she'd hit the correct button with her mad flail, she reached down next to the bed and ripped the cord out of the wall. Just to be sure.

And she did all of this without actually sitting up.

She hated the sound of her alarm clock. It had a radio setting, but it was too easy to sleep through, so she was stuck with something that sounded like a rabid metal duck mating with an ambulance siren, quack-shrieking their unholy union rhythmically in her ear. It _always_ made her jump, even when she knew it was coming. Of course, it also always woke her up, no matter how dead asleep she was, which was the only reason she kept it around. Rhys could sleep through her alarm, but Rhys was an absolutely Olympic caliber sleeper. She had no idea how he got to work on time, since she was usually up and out before Rhys was even stirring. And on the rare occasion she got to sleep in past him, usually the only way she could get him up and moving in time for work was with a few strategic arm punches. She'd asked him, once, how he got himself going without her to goad him and his response was, "Why would I want to waste my day sleeping in a bed that doesn't have you in it?" which had certainly earned him points for sweetness, but was absolute bollocks. Rhys could sleep on a picket fence if he had a mind to.

She smiled a little thinking of the morning she'd decided to wake him up with a blow job. She'd been so strategic, quietly peeling off the blankets, and maneuvering herself into the optimum oral-sex-bestowing position. She really needn't have bothered, since he slept through the whole thing. _The whole damn thing_. Gwen wasn't too upset, though. It had actually been kind of hot. Perplexed, but undeterred, she'd thought about maybe trying again the next day -- that is until, that night over dinner, Rhys had confessed to having a strange dream about stuffed animals with suction cups on their hands and feet, chasing him through the local bowling alley. When they'd finally caught up with him, between the vending machines and the whack-a-mole, one of them had pinned him down and done Something Very Naughty to him. At that point, she decided that good-morning blowjobs were only to come _after_ strategic arm punching. She liked having her work properly appreciated anyway.

The morning sunlight was streaming through the curtains, painting the room pink and highlighting swirling swatches of airborne particles. She thought about how lucky she was that she didn't have allergies, because then her bedroom might be hell, but at that exact moment it was a lot more like heaven. She felt absolutely perfect, warm and still drowsy, but not really wanting to go back to sleep. If she fell back asleep, she would miss feeling the weight of the duvet pressing her against the mattress, the sound of Rhys snoring gently next to her, and watching invisible drafts of air move dust around at the foot of the bed. She thought she could stay there forever. Even the ache in her legs, from chasing a Weevil through six blocks of backyards after it had appeared (randomly) in a suburb the previous evening, felt good. She flexed and stretched her legs, delighting in the dull burn. She wondered if Torchwood had the technology to time lock this moment, so she would never have to leave. They probably did, but she'd have to go to the Hub to get it, rendering the whole exercise pointless.

Something nearby buzzed in a short staccato burst. She sighed the sigh of the long-suffering. She'd forgotten to take her phone off of vibrate before going to bed last night. Reluctantly, she stretched to pick it up from its position next to the now-dark digital clock. Text message from Ianto. She saw she'd already missed a phone call from Jack. She smirked. Jack wasn't the text messaging type.

The text read: **Alien plant spores triggered automatic lockdown. Non-toxic, Jack working on containment. Please come override?**

Someone triggered a lockdown at the Hub? Must be a day that ends in 'y'. Usually she would spell words out all the way, but she knew text abbreviations drove Ianto mad. She texted back: **R u in danger?** It wasn't her fault he was such fun to provoke. She could feel him rolling his eyes from clear across town.

A reply came quickly. **No immediate danger. I might kill Jack for keeping plants that are evidently in heat.**

She snorted. She felt relaxed, lethargic, and a little evil. With a smug little smirk, she replied: **Sry. I mite b l8.** She'd catch hell, but she wouldn't catch it for... oh, an hour? Longer, if Jack couldn't contain the foreign contaminants long enough for her to safely override. And she was sure he and Ianto could find _some_ way to keep themselves entertained until she showed up.

She snapped the phone shut, and for the next half an hour watched a beam of light crawl slowly up the wall, dust particles whirling in the ether.


End file.
